


The First Thanksgiving

by Cheburashka2



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Could Be Canon, M/M, Romance, Thanksgiving fluff, This is somewhat crack-y, Total schmoop, post-513
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 12:45:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1226839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheburashka2/pseuds/Cheburashka2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Justin's stuck in Europe during a natural disaster and is doing his best to find his way home for their first Thanksgiving back together, while Brian is at home doing everything he can to help his Sunshine give the best Thanksgiving dinner their family and friends have ever had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Please, tell me a story...

**_2019...Present Day_ **

**_The night before Thanksgiving..._ **

 

“Daddy, tell me the story of the first Thanksgiving,” she asked hopefully.

“The first Thanksgiving?” Justin groaned, “Honey, you've heard it dozens of times.”

“But, Daaaad-dy! It's my favorite!”

“Don't tell me, the first Thanksgiving again, Sunshine?” Brian said smirking as he poked his head into their daughter's room.

“Need you ask, Brian?” Justin answered, waving him inside and meaningfully patting the empty space on the bed at their daughter's feet.

“I'll never forgive Deb for this,” Brian muttered as he walked into the room and stretched out on top of the light blue ribbons and bows bedspread, comfortably arranging himself against the whitewashed oak footboard.

“Dad, you say that every year and every year you tell me the story anyway, and every year you end up forgiving Grandma. Come on, you gotta tell me! It's, like, a tradition now – you always tell me the story of the first Thanksgiving the night before.”

“So why do you ask then?” He said, trying to tickle her feet through the bedspread.

“Because I am afraid you'll forget or not tell me on purpose. Come on, Dad, Daddy? I want to hear it again. Please!” She implored.

“Oh, all right! Get comfy, blondie,” Brian said, relenting.

“You all settled, honey?” Justin asked, helping her fix all her pillows around her just so.

“Yes!” She said, happily, looking like a miniature queen regally reclining on about a dozen frilly, downy, freshly plumped-up pillows. “I'm ready, I'm listening. Start the way I like it, OK?” She demanded imperiously.

“It was a dark and stormy night,” Brian began in an ominous voice.

“Dad!”

“Fine, fine,” Brian laughed. “I'll start the way you like it. OK, It was fall of 2007, 12 years ago, four years before you were born and two months after your father came back from New York to live with me here at Britin. The first couple...”

“You forgot to say  _'for good, thank God'_!”

“What?”

“You always say  _'...and two months after your father came back from New York to live with me here at Britin for good, thank God!'_  You can't forget that, Dad, it's important!”

“Oh, good Lord, Natalie! Since you know the story verbatim, why don't you tell it to  _us_  for a change?” Justin said, starting to get slightly exasperated on both his and Brian's behalf.

“Because you guys tell it soooooo much better!” She said in an overly dramatic voice. “OK, I'll stop interrupting, even if you mess it up a little. Promise! Come on, Dad, continue,” she commanded again, in a tone she clearly picked up from Brian.

“OK, where was I? Oh, right... and two months after your father came back from New York to live with me here at Britin for good, thank God,” Brian said, emphasizing the forgotten words on purpose in order to make Natalie smile contentedly. “The first couple of weeks or so were really hectic with the move, the gallery and Kinnetik, but then things calmed down all of a sudden and we had about a month together, just the two of us and it was great, wasn't it, Sunshine?”

“IT. WAS. AMAZING!” Justin said with a wistful, if not altogether unpredictable, sigh, for this too was tradition.

“Justin was really excited about spending our first holiday season together at Britin, starting with Thanksgiving and he was determined to make it the best one he and I have ever had. He planned to make the whole traditional Thanksgiving meal by himself, without anyone's help, and he insisted on inviting absolutely everyone. He researched the menu, he printed the recipes, he made the shopping list, he decorated the damned house with miniature pumpkins, gourds, multicolored leaves, fall flowers, and various turkey paraphernalia, and then that...that ...”

“Bastard, Dad, bastard,” Natalie supplied helpfully, while Brian frowned at his daughters' words, a growling noise escaping from deep within his throat, while Justin dissolved into a fit of laughter seeing his husband's perturbed expression. “You've always called him that, even when I was a little girl, Dad, so you might as well continue,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Fine,” he groused, slightly embarrassed. He didn't realize that his calling Justin's old agent a bastard has become a tradition as well.

“And then, that bastard Blaine Duval – what kind of a name is Blaine, anyway? - calls two weeks before Thanksgiving saying that some prestigious gallery in London wanted to have a show of Justin's works in a weeks' time and insisted that Justin be there for the entire 10 day run!”

“Which meant that I would have missed Thanksgiving,” Justin picked up the story on queue. “I was really happy about the show – that would have been my first international art exhibit – but at the same time, I was upset that doing the show would completely ruin all of my, or our, Thanksgiving plans.”

Brian reached out and took Justin's hand in his, squeezing it lightly, just like he always did during this part of the story. Justin, in turn, gently squeezed back and rubbed this thumb along that of Brian's. This didn't go unnoticed by the eight-year-old Natalie, who a couple of years ago realized that this loving gesture was done completely unconsciously by both of her fathers – it was as if they still needed the reassurance of each others touch at the mere thought or mention of a separation. She sighed quietly, smiled and waited for her Dad to continue, which he did promptly.

“Well, Justin agreed to the show, but negotiated his being there for only half the time. The show was to open on Friday evening and he planned to take the red eye back to the Pitts with a layover in New York on Monday night, get here by Tuesday afternoon, rest the rest of the day and still have all day Wednesday to go shopping, and get as much as he could ready in advance before his cooking marathon on Thursday morning before the Thanksgiving dinner. I wasn't happy about him leaving so soon after finally coming back home, but I couldn't begrudge such an enormous opportunity for his career. So, reluctantly...”

“And with a lot of complaining and grumbling, and many 'you owe me big time Sunshine's'...” Justin piped in with a laugh.

“...I agreed,” Brian finished his sentence and with a mock-scowl towards his husband said, “That wasn't part of the story, Justin. You are messing it up and will upset the little princess over there. What will we do then, huh?”

“Run for our lives?” Justin joked.

“Stop making fun of me, will you?” Natalie said indignantly, “Come on, Dad, Daddy, please tell the story without messing up too much, OK? At least not on purpose.”

“OK, OK!” They said in unison, laughing. Then they looked at each other, their hands still clasped together, smiled and got lost in each others eyes. The years, as well as their surroundings disappeared and they suddenly found themselves there, 12 years ago in their shared memories.

 

~*~*~*~*~


	2. Ash & Other Disasters

**_Fall 2007...Pittsburgh_ **

****_Wednesday, 8 days to the Thanksgiving holiday..._  
  


“I am about to sound like a complete and total sentimental lesbian, so you better pay attention, Sunshine – I wish you didn't have to leave, I miss you already and you better get your sweet bubble butt home next Tuesday as planned, because for the first time in my entire fucking life I am actually looking forward to the damned holidays. It's entirely your fault and you...”

“Owe you big time? Yes, Brian, I know.” Justin stood up on his tip-toes and kissed him hard on the mouth, completely disregarding any onlookers standing in the airport security line nearby. “I promise you will collect as soon as I get home. Your wish – any wish – will be my command and I will gladly and happily fulfill it; I will give you whatever your heart, or your cock, desires. I also promise that nothing, absolutely nothing on this earth will prevent me from being with you for the holidays now that we are finally together for good, OK?”

“OK, Justin. I'll hold you to your promise. Actually, I feel like it's my fault and I fucking hate that feeling.”

“Why?” Justin asked, bewildered.

“Because, I wish I was coming with you, but I promised Leo to have my team come up with a revamped campaign before Thanksgiving. I just can't let him down, Justin, Brown Athletics has been with Kinnetik since the beginning.”

“Brian, I know! You've already explained this to me, though you really didn't have to. Don't worry, I understand. This is work and it's important to both of us. Besides, it's just a few days – a weekend really. I'll be back before you know it and I'll drive you completely insane within a day trying to cook the Thanksgiving meal. Now, I better get in line and get through security as fast as I can or I might miss my flight. I love you, Brian. I love you more than I can say.”

They kissed again quite fiercely, then Justin disengaged himself from Brian's tight embrace and went to the back of the security line. Brian watched him for a few minutes – the line suddenly started to move quickly as a second security gate opened and within five minutes Justin was at the front of the line, shoeless, belt-less, jacket-less and taking off the bulky, blue cable-knit sweater he was wearing to ward off the unseasonable cold. The tight white t-shirt that Justin wore underneath the sweater rode up with his movements, briefly exposing a slender, elegant, alabaster back, sending Brian's libido instantly into overdrive. Then, the sweater was off, the t-shirt was yanked back down and Justin was about to step through the metal detector. _I can't let him go like that!_ Brian thought and quickly walking up to the roped off security fence said loudly, heedless of the crowd around him,

“Justin!” Justin quickly turned around, smiling quizzically, “I love you, you hear me? Love you! I'll see you on Tuesday.”

Then seeing Justin's face break out into an incandescent smile, he smiled back, waved and swiftly turning around strode out of the terminal.

~*~*~*~

**_Pittsburgh..._ **

**_Monday, 3.5 days to the Thanksgiving dinner..._ **

Brian worked all weekend long, shutting himself in his office at Kinnetik and then in his home office at Britin, even though the promised campaign revamp for Leo Brown was finished late on Friday night. He told himself that he was working so much in order to have his schedule completely clear for Thanksgiving dinner, for the family and invited friends. In reality, he just refused to think how much Justin's absence was affecting him, so he forcefully pushed any melodramatic and melancholy thoughts away and concentrated on work.

On Monday morning, he walked into Kinnetik and was surprised to find most of his staff congregated around the large conference table in his office, watching the large flat screen TV mounted on the wall.

“Cynthia, what the hell is going on here?” He asked irritably.

“Eyjafjallajökull,” she answered absently, still riveted by the news coverage on screen.

“Gesundheit! Again, that's going on?”

“For fuck's sake, Brian, I wasn't sneezing! Where have you been all weekend long? Eyjafjallajökull is a volcano in Iceland that erupted on Sunday morning.”

“OK.” He interrupted, completely confused. “What the fuck does an Icelandic volcano eruption have to do with all of you idiots gathering in my office to watch television, instead of doing what I pay you a lot of money to do, which is to create brilliant advertizing campaigns? And why my office, by the way?”

“You have a 64 inch LCD - a much better option than the 32 inch one in the staff break room. And you might want to pay attention to what's going on with Eyjafjallajökull...”

“Cynthia, repeating the name won't make you seem smarter, you know?” Brian interrupted, smirking.

“Pay attention, Brian!” Cynthia barked, completely ignoring his barb. “The eruption itself wasn't a major one, but the ash that it spewed into the atmosphere is a pretty fucking big deal. The ash cloud is moving towards Europe, disrupting air traffic due to visibility being about nil. CNN International reported five minutes ago that Heathrow canceled half of their flights, and there are predictions that it will be closed entirely. Now which airport is Justin flying out of tonight, pray tell?”

“Fuck!” Brian suddenly realized why his mailbox was full of ignored voice mails – he was just about certain that Debbie and the rest of the gang have heard about the volcano and were calling him for answers he clearly didn't have.

He didn't want to talk to anyone on Sunday, so he turned his phone to silent and avoided any phone calls that didn't come from someone at Kinnetik. The only person he spoke to was Justin for all of two minutes on Sunday around noon and nothing about a volcano was said at all. Justin had a busy few days and he was running a bit late for the gallery. He hurriedly said that the show was still going great, his paintings were selling very well and the show promised to be a rousing success, even without him being there for half of the 10 day run. He asked Brian how the Brown Athletics project went and when Brian said that it has already been finished, Justin quickly congratulated him, told him he loved him, that he couldn't wait to see him on Tuesday and promptly hung up. That conversation, though Brian was loath to call it as such, painfully reminded him of many similar phone encounters during their long long-distance relationship, when they were both too damn busy to spend more than five minutes on the phone with each other. Those memories more than anything made him avoid any contact with the outside world and closet himself with work until he actually fell asleep at his desk.

Brian truly hated feeling like some sort of a co-dependent housewife, but the last month with Justin at Britin has been so good, that he truly didn't want it to end. This weekend was supposed to be a short separation and he was actually looking forward to the mayhem and the craziness that Thanksgiving promised to be; but now, he was afraid that none of it would happen, if Heathrow were to completely close.

 _Fuck,_   _I really need to talk to Justin!_  he thought.

Brian's desk phone suddenly rang and he knew, somehow, he just knew that it would be Justin. He sprinted towards the desk and picked up the phone on the third ring.

“Justin?”

“Yeah, it's me, Brian. Wait, how did you know? I'm using a calling card.”

“No idea. I just found out about the damn volcano blowing up at the most inopportune time and I was just thinking about you.”

“Oh!” He sighed, in an awed, somewhat surprised way. He always sounded like that when Brian said something uncharacteristically sweet or romantic. That almost half-breathy  _“oh!”_ instantly reminded Brian of the first time he told Justin that he loved him amid the ash and smoke of a charred out Babylon.

“Earth to Justin!” Brian said gently, when the phone line went silent for a few seconds.

“Right...about the volcano. Brian, Heathrow just closed – BBC announced it a minute ago. Nothing is coming in or going out of London by air until the ash cloud passes. They say it could take a week, maybe more.”

“Damn! So much for you being home tomorrow. What about other airports? Paris, perhaps, have you heard anything?”

At that moment Cynthia came up to his desk and said that CNN International just announced that Heathrow, all other British airports and Paris Charles de Gaulle were closed; all flights in and out canceled.

“Never mind, Justin, Charles de Gaulle is closed too. Let's face it, you are not going to be home for Thanksgiving, so I better cancel the whole thing.”

“Don't you dare, Brian! I promised that I would be there, that nothing on earth would stop me, right?”

“Well, there's your loophole, Sunshine – it's the fucking volcano ash in the fucking air that's preventing you from coming home! Not exactly an earth-bound disaster,” Brian said, suddenly angry. He wasn't angry at Justin, but at the situation and at himself for being so irrationally upset.

“Hey, hey, don't give up yet, Brian! Ash or no ash, I'll try to figure out something. I'm not going to just give up like this. We don't break promises to each other, right? So, I'll do everything I possibly can to be there. It'll just take some creativity on my part and maybe some time, but unless every single airport in Europe closes, then I'll find a way to come home. OK, Brian?”

“Yeah, OK. Keep me posted.”

“I will. I've gotta go. I love you!”

“I love you too,” he said into an already dead phone line.

Within the next two hours it was announced that most European airports were closed or were soon closing. Flights to Europe already in the air were being redirected where possible and flights out of many European countries, were being canceled left and right. England was completely on lock down, at least as far as air traffic was concerned and Brian's heart was sinking with every passing minute.

~*~*~*~

Around 11:30 am Pittsburgh time, Justin called again. Brian picked up the phone and plastered a fake smile on his face, determined not to sound upset and make things more difficult for Justin. He was determined to weather this ash cloud mess with his usual aplomb and if Justin were to be stuck in Europe for the next two weeks – that's how long the news media were predicting this disaster could last – he'll take the disappointment and the separation like a man.  _I'm Brian fucking Kinney, I can do this!_ he thought as he returned Justin's hello.

“What's the news?”

“Brian, I have a plan! I managed to get a seat on a flight from Madrid to Atlanta Wednesday at noon. It seems it's one of the few flights to the US still available. With the time difference, I'll be arriving in Atlanta around 4:15 pm, then I'll be changing airlines and flying to Cincinnati – I swear, there was nothing, nothing I could find that would take me directly to Pittsburgh. It's as if the entire country has relatives in the Pitts and everyone collectively decided to spend their Thanksgiving there. Anyway, Cincinnati was the closest I could get, so I reserved a rental car and will be driving home from Ohio. My flight into Cincinnati will get there around 8:30 and the drive time to Pittsburgh is a little over five hours. Well, it might be a bit more with the holiday traffic, but it doesn't matter, because I'll be home around two or three in the morning on Thursday. I'll get a few hours of sleep and still have time to prepare the best Thanksgiving meal by the time everyone arrives at five o'clock!” Justin said triumphantly. “See, Brian, it will all work out, like I told you. The only thing is that you have to go to the grocery store no later than Wednesday and get all of the ingredients on my list. OK, Brian? I'll owe you another one.”

“Justin, that's a great plan, except you are in London and the flight to Atlanta is from Madrid. Nothing in England is flying anywhere, how exactly are you getting to Spain?”

“The train, babe, the train...well...and the ferry as well.”

“The ferry?” Brian asked in confusion.

“Yeah, there were no seats left on the Eurostar. My only option is to take the train to Dover tomorrow morning – I'm out of luck for tonight - then the ferry to Calais, then the train to Paris, then a night train to Spain. All these connections don't have a lot of time in between them, so I'm going to have to haul ass from one to the other, but I'll make it, I promise. Just get the groceries and we'll have the most amazing Thanksgiving together.” Justin said confidently, his voice clearly excited that he's found a solution to their dilemma.

“Justin,” Brian sighed, “listen, are you listening?”

“Of course, Brian.”

“Your plan is brilliant, but you'll be traveling for two days straight, you'll be exhausted.”  
  
“We are not canceling dinner with the family, Brian!”

“I am not suggesting that. I am suggesting that we let Deb do the cooking, or mother Taylor, or both. Hell, I'll hire Emmett to do the food – he'll be ecstatic.”

“No way, Brian!” Justin was adamant. “This is our first Thanksgiving together, in our home, after a long-ass time apart. I love Deb, I love my mom and spending the holidays with them the last few years has been nothing short of amazing, but this is for us, Brian. This is our time! I want to start our life together in our home with a celebration that we, or I, create for our family.”

“There's still Christmas, Justin, and then New Years. It's only a month away. We can do this then...”

“No!” Justin was adamant, “I have a lot of things to be thankful for in my life, Brian. It may be sentimental or stupid, or whatever, but for some reason, this holiday has become very important to me over the last few years. I want _– no, I need -_  to do this for us, for our family and friends. It's important to me, Brian.”

“OK. You got it, Sunshine. I'll get everything you need on the list.” Brian promised. “Get some rest tonight, Justin, it sounds like you'll need it.”

He had a suspicion that Justin's appreciation for the Thanksgiving holiday had a lot to do with the bashing. The very first year they met, Justin actively complained about participating in any sort of a celebration, calling it hypocritical, commercialized bullshit. A year later, though, he actually insisted on being at Deb's for Thanksgiving and although he never said it out loud (when everyone around the table was stating the one thing they were all most thankful for that year, Justin only mentioned still being a student at PIFA), Brian clearly saw in his eyes that he was most thankful for just being alive.

Brian couldn't care less about Thanksgiving himself, but for Justin, he would do just about anything. Therefore, if Justin wanted to travel for 48 hours straight across several countries and an ocean, and then spend hours cooking a traditional meal for 20 people, he wasn't going to argue much. Instead, he decided, he would help him.

~*~*~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are love. Thank you for reading!


	3. Trains, Ferries & Children... Oh, my!

**_London..._ **

**_Tuesday Morning, 2.5 days to the Thanksgiving dinner..._ **

  
Justin decided to follow Brian's advice and get as much rest as possible. He got everything packed and ready for this departure in the morning, set the alarm, requested a wake up call from the front desk, just in case, and by nine in the evening he was in bed, trying to go to sleep. Justin has never had any problems falling asleep in the past, but that Monday night he was wired to the max, his mind and body refused to relax no matter how hard he tried. After an hour of tossing and turning, he gave up, took a sleeping pill and soon after fell into a dreamless sleep.

The next morning, he was thanking his lucky stars for having the foresight to request a wake up call at 7:30, because he didn't hear the alarm clock at all. He rarely took any kind of medications, being wary of most pharmaceuticals due to his allergies, but the one sleep aid he wasn't allergic to, Unisom, he always kept on hand in cases of travel. The problem was that he took it so rarely, he completely forgot that it put him into a sleep so deep it resembled a coma and that he invariably woke up alert, and full of energy in his body, but slightly fuzzy-brained and hung-over in his head. It took him a solid hour, an extra long shower and three cups of strong coffee to feel like his normal self again. By nine o'clock he was ready to go and arrived at the Charring Cross station in plenty of time to catch the train to Dover.

Justin would have enjoyed the roughly two hour train ride through the scenic and historic countryside of Kent, but for the rather crowded conditions. He got to the train early enough to snag a window seat and prepared for a lovely ride. Unfortunately, the train was soon filled to capacity and the seats around him were unexpectedly occupied by several families, young children in tow. Justin loved kids, he rarely had a problem with them and was usually very good-natured around even the crankiest of children. The problem was that the four youngsters, all under the age of six, seemed to have all spawned from the devil himself and their parents, clearly already exhausted from whatever travel problems they've endured, decided to just let them run wild on the train and did nothing at all to quell the increasing rambunctiousness that was getting on everyone's last nerve.

When Justin got to Dover two hours later, his shin was smarting from the repeated kicks of a three year old boy, who, along with his parents didn't speak a word of English – Justin was unlucky enough to sit beside the one European family not to know the language – and he was developing a headache from listening to the loud wails of a baby being unsuccessfully comforted in the row behind him for the last 30 minutes of the train ride. 

 _If this is the herald of things to come on my way home, I'm in for a world of hurt,_  he thought.

He decided to keep his spirits up, hope for the best and to make things a little bit easier on himself, he took a taxi from the train station to the ferry terminal, instead of waiting for a shuttle.

He got on the ferry, found a nice, comfortable spot with a table, got out his sketchpad and prepared to spend the two and a half hour ferry ride sketching the beauty of the famous White Cliffs of Dover. His hopes for a calming, soothing sail were soon dashed when the same group of families with kids homed in on his position like a beacon and settled all around him. When he saw the young mother with the screaming baby walk into the same space, Justin vehemently shook his head and said out loud to no one in particular, “Oh, hell no! I'm not doing this again!”

He quickly abandoned his spot and went in search of a child-free zone. Unfortunately, the ferry was even more crowded than the train and families seemed to be everywhere at once. He ended up finding a quiet spot in the back of the ferry where he could watch the slowly disappearing cliffs in relative peace, but it lacked the basic comfort of seating and the luxury of a table. He ended up standing the entire time leaning against an unyielding, cold wall, his ever-present duffel bag and fold-over suitcase containing his dress clothes at his feet. He sketched as much as he could in this uncomfortable position, but his wrist began to cramp up sooner than was usual and he eventually gave up. To make his situation worse, the demon-child from the train that was apparently on his way to the bathroom with his mother, somehow managed to trip right in front of him and kicked him in a similar spot, but on his other shin while falling down. The mother tried to apologize in what sounded something like Portuguese and Justin did his best to smile reassuringly, while mentally assessing the damage to his abused extremities.

When the ferry finally docked in Calais, Justin was already tired and his journey home wasn't even a third of the way done. He sighed, squared his shoulders and jumped into the first taxi he could get in order to get to the train station in the center of town. 

 _Please God and all that is Holy, let there be a place on the train without screaming or kicking children! H_ e silently prayed.

~*~*~*~

When he caught the 4:45 train to Paris, he was pleasantly surprised to find a free window seat in the dining car, opposite an elderly gentleman with a newspaper and a girl in her early twenties with a laptop and next to a stylishly dressed woman about his mother's age who was busy looking through her briefcase. He happily took the seat next to the woman, got out his sketchpad, a piece of charcoal and to his own surprise began sketching the “kicking kid” from earlier that day. He decided that if he saw that family again, especially anywhere on the Paris bound train, he'll bribe them with the sketch in order to keep their demon-spawn away from his shins.

The first half of the train ride to Paris was spent pleasantly enough – he ordered some food and much needed coffee. He had a nice conversation with the elderly gentleman and the young girl; the former turned out to be British and a physician on his way to a medical conference in Paris, and the latter a German student on her way back home from visiting friends in London. They both noticed his sketch and, curious, asked him about it and then about his work once he divulged that he was an artist. The woman sitting next to them was completely absorbed in whatever it was she was doing and ignored her table companions as well as their conversation until about half-way through the trip. Then, she suddenly whipped out her cell phone and proceeded to talk loudly and animatedly first in fluent Italian, then in equally fluent French, switching to a very passable, heavily-accented English, then in somewhat broken German and then back to Italian, effectively ending Justin's conversation with his fellow travelers. The three smiled at each other ruefully and went back to their respective newspaper, laptop and sketchbook in order to pass the time doing their best to ignore the woman who never stopped talking at the top of her lungs for the remainder of the trip. Justin took the time to sketch both the British doctor and the German student in charcoal, concentrating on doing a thorough job and including as much detail as possible, despite the gentle swaying of the train, the somewhat jarring stops and starts at every station and the increasingly annoying, never ceasing, multilingual chatter of the woman seated to his right.

By the time Justin arrived in Paris, his headache had returned full force and he was starting to feel mildly claustrophobic in the crowded train as everyone got up all at once and rushed into an even more crowded platform outside. He managed to say a polite goodbye to his table mates (except the woman, who only stopped talking on her cell when she disembarked) and to their utter surprise and pleasure gifted them with their charcoal portraits. The train arrived at the Gare du Nord and having less then an hour to get to his night train to Madrid at another train station, he ran as fast as he could to meet his connection.

For once, Justin, who was very frugal by nature, was extremely happy that the only seat available on the train to Madrid was the expensive double occupancy sleeper cabin that included a shower. By the time the train left Paris at nine in the evening, Justin was exhausted. His cabin companion was MIA, the only evidence that he was sharing the cabin with someone was a large suitcase secured on the top luggage shelf. Justin took a quick shower in the minuscule stall of the tiny cabin bathroom, wishing for the luxurious bath at Britin, but nevertheless extremely grateful to be able to wash off the stress and the sweat of the day. He brushed his teeth and then fell in an exhausted heap into his narrow bed, falling asleep in seconds, lulled by the strangely soothing music of the train tracks.

Justin woke up at 7:30 the next morning fully rested, refreshed and headache free, a full hour and a half before the scheduled arrival to Madrid. His cabin companion was still missing, as was his suitcase. Justin surmised that he has already disembarked at some previous stop or went to the dining car in search of breakfast. Justin took another quick shower thinking that he won't have that luxury again until his arrival at Britin. Fifteen minutes later, he was surprised to find the train steward offering him breakfast. In his exhaustion, Justin completely forgot that it was included in the exorbitant ticket price.

 _If the rest of the day goes like this, the rest of the trip home should be a breeze,_ he thought.

Unfortunately, he couldn't have been more wrong.

~*~*~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are gold! Thank you for reading.


	4. Brian & the Thanksgiving Dinner

**_Pittsburgh..._ **

__**Wednesday, 1.5 days to the Thanksgiving Dinner...**   
  


Brian was awakened by his loudly ringing cell on his bedside table at seven in the morning. He decided to stay at the loft the night before and go into the office early, since Justin charged him with a mountain of grocery shopping.

“Who the fuck is this?” he said irritably, not recognizing the number.

“Brian, it's me. I'm using a calling card. I have some bad news.”

“Sunshine?” Brian sat up, instantly awake and alert. “Are you OK? What the fuck is going on?”

“I'm still in Madrid. My 11 am flight to Atlanta was canceled due to mechanical failure of some sort. We all sat in that damned tin can for an hour until the powers that be decided the plane wasn't safe to fly and told everyone to get off. I've spent the past hour trying to find an alternative route home.”

“Well, thank God for small favors!” Brian exclaimed.

“What the fuck do you mean, Brian?”

“What do you think would have happened if the plane took off, huh, Justin? I'd rather you be alive in Madrid, then dead somewhere in the middle of the fucking Atlantic!”

“Oh, shit! I am so fucking focused on getting home, that I didn't even think about the possibility of a plane crash.” He sighed heavily, then continued. “In any case, the only flight to the US that leaves today and has an available seat is to Charlotte, with a layover in Miami. The flight leaves at six in the evening local time and the whole shebang will take about 20 hours, give or take 30 minutes. With the time difference, it will put me in North Carolina around 8 am tomorrow. There are no available connections to Pittsburgh, so I'm going to have to drive home. Thank God, I was lucky enough to get a rental car again.”

“Justin,” Brian interrupted “that drive is longer than the one from Cincinnati, it'll take you eight hours or thereabouts.”  
  
“I know, I know, Brian!” Justin shouted in frustration. “I'm sorry, I don't mean to scream at you. I'm just upset with the whole situation. If traffic is not too much of a problem, I should make it home by five. So, I'll make it for our first Thanksgiving dinner at Britin, but someone else will have to cook it.”

“Fuck our first Thanksgiving dinner!” Brian blew up, “I don't want you killing yourself to get here by tomorrow, Justin! I understand, the family will too and so will our friends. Stay in Madrid until there's a flight to Pittsburgh, come home in a few days and we'll do the whole dinner thing for Christmas, I promise you.”

“Brian...”  
  
“No, Justin, listen to me. Are you listening? I love you, Sunshine, OK? We'll have a slew of other Thanksgivings and you can go to town turkeying it up to your hearts content, just NOT. THIS. YEAR!”

“Brian, it's not about the damned dinner anymore! Have you forgotten Eyjafjallajökull, or whatever it's called? The volcano, the ash cloud – any of it ring a bell? We are lucky that this airport is still open and there is still a flight out to the US. If I don't take this seat, which I already reserved by the way, and wait until tomorrow, or the day after, the ash might make it impossible for me to get out of Spain. Didn't you hear the reports about this mess covering most of Europe for two weeks or more? I don't want to be here for the next two weeks, Brian. I want to come home to you! As far as Thanksgiving goes, if there's still a chance that I can make it at least for dinner, than I  _want_  to do it. Even if the food is prepared by someone else, I still want to celebrate our first Thanksgiving at Britin together with you, with our friends and our family. So, go to the store like you promised; then call Deb, my mom and Emmett, and let them – what did you call it? – turkey it up. OK?”

“I can't believe I am agreeing to this, but OK.” Brian was shaking his head in denial at his own weakness. He just couldn't bring himself to refuse this man anything, especially since Justin was doing everything he possibly could to come home soon. “All right, Justin, whatever you want. You've gotta promise me that you'll be careful on the drive over from Charlotte.”

“I promise. I'll call you every time I cross a state line, how does that sound?”

“Fucking fabulous.”

“I'm going to ignore the sarcasm. I'll just tell you that I love you and that I'll see you tomorrow around five.”

“Ditto, Sunshine. Safe flight.”

~*~*~*~

When they hung up, Brian sat on the bed, motionless and staring at the phone for several long minutes, thinking. When he finally shook himself out of his stupor, he decided not to waste any more time. He got up, took an extra long shower, made himself some coffee, got a bagel at the diner and drove to Kinnetik for a half day workday (he decided to give his employees a gift and closed the office at noon), but the incessant thoughts about Justin and his desperate desire to get home for a holiday meal with him and their family, wouldn't leave him alone.

When walking out of the office at noon, he stopped by Cynthia's desk.

“Cynthia, what would you do for a person who loves you so much that he's willing to travel across the world for practically three days straight with little rest in order to be with you on Thanksgiving?”

“I'd give him a Thanksgiving he'd never forget,” she answered without hesitation. “Is Justin going to make it?”

“That's what I was afraid of you'd say and yes, he'll make it. The stubborn little shit is determined to be here tomorrow by five come hell or high water.” Brian sighed. “Thanks, Cyn.”  
  
“Ah, Brian? What are you planning to do exactly?” She asked apprehensively.

“As you said, I'll give him a Thanksgiving meal he'll never forget – he wants a traditional dinner, cooked by us, in our home, so that's exactly what I'll do, with a minor tweak, that is.”

Cynthia suddenly burst out laughing, “You aren't planning on cooking yourself, are you Brian? You...you can't cook!”

“Cynthia, I've never said I couldn't cook. I've always said that I wouldn't,” Brian said with absolute confidence. “Besides, how hard could it possibly be? Justin printed out all the recipes, so I'll just follow the directions.”

“But...but...but...” she sputtered, but overcome with hysterical laughter again, was unable to complete her thought.   
  
“No 'buts', Cynthia and stop that ridiculous giggling. Bottom line is, if Justin is willing to bend over backwards for me and travel half way around the world with a fucking ash cloud hot on his heels, I should do something in return. He's been talking about cooking the stupid dinner for weeks now. I'm his partner, right? If he can't be here to do it, I should step up and do it for him.”

“That's...that's admirable Brian, “ She continued in between giggles, her laughter somewhat subsiding little by little, “and unbelievably sweet, coming from you... emphasis on unbelievable, of course.”

“Ha, ha, Cynthia. Hilarious, I'm sure,” Brian groused.

“You do realize that even experienced cooks get a little, shall we say, frazzled around holiday meals, don't you? Wouldn't it be better if someone else cooked it? Debbie? Emmett, perhaps? Justin's mother will lend a hand, I'm sure, if you asked her. Or you could do a potluck thing, have everyone bring a dish. I don't normally cook, but I make killer candied yams. I'll be more then happy to...”  
  
“No! No Deb, no Emmett, no potluck. I'm going to make the damn thing myself, end of discussion. Oh, and you'd better not bail out of me, Cynthia. Justin expects you to be there tomorrow and without your killer candied yams - by the way, that's the most disgusting thing I've ever heard of. Now, I'm going to the fucking grocery store to shop,” he announced and walked out of the office.

As soon as Brain was out the door, Cynthia practically sprinted to Ted's office. She walked in without knocking and when he looked up surprised, all she said was,

“Houston, we have a problem!”

~*~*~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are like pie a la mode on Thanksgiving - amazing! Thank you for reading.


	5. Top Chef...Maybe...

****_Britin...  
  
_

****_Thanksgiving Day, 8 A.M - 9 hours until dinner  
  
_

Brian got out of the shower a few minutes after eight when his cell phone chimed with an incoming text message.

_Prepare to name our firstborn Charlotte, cause I've never been happier to be stateside than right now!_

Brian was slightly taken aback by the “firstborn” comment, but decided to have fun with it anyway and texted back,

_What about Miami?_

_Layover, so I guess it didn't count. Charlotte it is!_

_U realize, if it's a boy he'll get the shit kicked out of him @ school for being named Charlotte._

_LOL! Charles, then. On my way to the car rental place. Call u @ VA border. Love u!_

_Love u 2. Drive safe & btw, Happy Thanksgiving!_

_Happy Thanksgiving! C u in 8 hrs, give or take, c_ ame another reply.

Brian laughed, shaking his head. “You just gotta have the last word, don't you, Sunshine?” he said aloud to the phone.

He put on his favorite workout gear and headed to the kitchen. He deliberately avoided the printed recipes on the counter, the bags of groceries that didn't need refrigeration that were left on the kitchen island, and he especially ignored the fridge itself with the 20 pound turkey that was defrosting in there. 

 _I have more than 8 hours before dinner - plenty of time,_ he thought and decided to spend a couple of hours having breakfast – coffee, toast, newspaper, CNN International in the background – and working out – treadmill, pushups, situps, weights. He decided that if he was going to be eating a ton of food, laden with butter, sugar and carbs all day long, the least he could do for his body was to get a little bit of exercise.

~*~*~*~

**_10 A.M - 7 hours to Thanksgiving Dinner..._ **

At ten a.m. and after another refreshing shower Brian put on his oldest pair of Armani jeans, a black wife beater and went down to the kitchen to deal with the dinner preparations. He remembered Justin talking about doing a bunch of things in advance, so he thought he'd spend an hour prepping, then take a break for a couple of hours and start cooking in earnest around three. 

 _Two hours should be plenty,_ he decided.

He took a look at the printed recipes and decided to check them off against the stuff that he bought the day before: turkey – check, stuffing – check, mashed potatoes – check, scalloped potatoes – check, green bean casserole – check, candied yams – fuck!, gravy – double fuck!, salad – check, apple pie – check, pumpkin pie – check, cinnamon ice cream – check.

Brian realized he forgot to buy the gravy and there was no way he was making it from scratch. The idea of candied yams slightly turned his stomach. Brian was not at all a fan of sweet potatoes, or yams, or whatever the hell people called them, in any shape or form, candied included. Realizing that he had no choice he called Cynthia.

“Cynthia, Brian here. About those candied yams of yours – bring them, will you? Somehow I missed the recipe that Justin printed out and didn't buy them. Oh, and pick up some gravy on the way, OK? Seems I forgot to buy that too.”

“You are telling me this now, Brian? After ten on Thanksgiving day? When most stores are either completely cleaned out, already closed or will be closing in an hour?”

“If anyone can get it done, it's the mighty Cynthia – I have faith in you!” Brian said, trying to keep his usual smirk in check.

“Ah-huh. I'm not falling for the 'mighty Cynthia' comment, Brian. I'm only doing this for Justin, no one else, understand?”

“Perfectly. Thanks!”

“Brian, how's the cooking coming? Need any help?”

“Cooking? I have hours yet, Cynthia. Don't worry, I have everything under control. See you at five with the yams and gravy.” He said and hung up without waiting for a response.

Looking back at the recipes, he decided that the list wasn't all that long. He picked up the pies at a local bakery – he drew the line at baking. He actually found cinnamon ice cream, which was, apparently, a seasonal thing. The salad was the easiest thing on the list and would take him all of five minutes to make, especially since salad making was his contribution to dinner when Justin and he ate at home. So all he had to do was roast the turkey and prepare four side dishes, two of which were made with potatoes.

 _Why the hell does he want two types of potatoes?_ Brian wondered, _fuck it, he wants them, he'll have them!_

Justin's directions for cooking the turkey called for a fresh bird. Unfortunately, all that was left at the market on Liberty avenue was one frozen 20 pound Butterball and Brian refused to go halfway across town to the Big Q just on the off chance they'd still have a fresh one left. At least the size was right for the number of people coming to dinner.

“Deb, Carl, Linds, Mel, Gus, JR, Michael, Ben, Hunter, Ted, Blake, Emmett, Calvin, Jennifer, Tucker, Molly, Daphne and Cynthia – that makes 18, plus us two,” he counted out loud. “Twenty in total, so the beast should be just right. Besides, Gus and Jr are kids, they don't eat all that much, it should be enough. Speaking of...” he decided to check on the defrosting “beast” in the fridge and was utterly surprised to find it still partially frozen. “Shit!”

He got it out, took a closer look at the direction on the plastic package and to his dismay read that it takes several days to thaw a 20 pound bird in the refrigerator.

“Fuck!” he exclaimed again. The bird was too large to put in the microwave and he was starting to panic, when an idea hit suddenly hit him. “Cold water, it'll defrost faster in cold water! It's barely after 10:30 – plenty of time!” He put the bird in the sink, filled it with cold water and decided to deal with the prep work next.

He got out all the veggies, laid them all out assembly style, re-read the recipes one more time, but before he could get started his phone rang and Justin's happy voice filled the kitchen over his cell phones' speaker.

“Brian! I just crossed the Virginia border. It took a while to get the rental car and to get out of the airport, but once I got out of the city and onto the freeway, traffic was no problem and it was smooth sailing up to this point. The GPS in the rental says that I have another five and a half hours to go. It's almost 11 now, so I'll be home around 4:30-ish, barring any traffic issues.”

“That's great! Call me when you hit the West Virginia border.”

“I will. How is it going over there?”

“Great, Sunshine! No problems, none whatsoever!” Brian said as brightly as he could. “Don't worry about a thing and just concentrate on getting your ass home safe and sound.”

“OK. I gotta go, Brian. Love you.”

“You too,” Brian hung up and decided to start with the onions, but before he could get started his phone rang again. This time it was Deb on the phone.

“Brian, a little birdy told me that you took it upon yourself to cook the Thanksgiving dinner. Need any help?”

“No, Deb. I'm fine. Everything's under control. Just get here by five like we discussed, OK? Oh, and next time a little birdy starts talking – shoot it!” He said and unceremoniously hung up.

Over the next two hours, while he was busy chopping every vegetable known to man – at least, in his opinion – he was interrupted by just about everyone on the list of invited guests, all of whom were solicitously asking if he needed help cooking. Brian realized that he was being stubborn in the extreme, but he was determined to get everything done himself and refused every offer. He figured, if Justin could find a way to overcome seemingly insurmountable odds and get home for Thanksgiving, then he should be able to do the same with this dinner.

~*~*~*~

**_1 P.M.- Four hours to Thanksgiving Dinner..._ **

By one o'clock, Brian finally understood why Justin wanted to prep as much as possible the day before and was cursing himself for wasting time earlier. In the last two hours amid countless interruptions, he cried like a girl after chopping what seemed like a hundred pounds of onions, when in fact it was only about four medium sized bulbs. He nicked his thumb trying to slice potatoes into paper-thin rounds because he couldn't find a mandolin.

 _What the fuck is a mandolin anyway? I wouldn't recognize one if I saw it,”_  he admitted to himself.

His other thumb got the same treatment when he was trying to mince a couple of cloves of garlic. When he belatedly read in the recipe that the garlic could be grated instead, he wanted to scream.

He decided he hated celery, carrots, bell peppers and mushrooms with a passion and if he never chopped them into “small, uniform, bite-size pieces” again in his life, it would be too soon. After cutting what looked like a mountain of green beans into equal-sized thirds, he thought his vision was beginning to have problems because green dots were starting to dance in front of his eyes. To remedy that uncomfortable situation, he got a snifter of Jim Beam and tossed back about a third of a glass.

Five minutes later he felt marginally better, his vision cleared and he decided it was time to deal with the defrosting “beast” in the sink. It needed four and a half hours of roasting time and it being just past one pm, he was rapidly running out of time. When he read the package directions again, he started to slightly panic and tossed another snifter of Beam. When that didn't help, he called Deb.

“Deb, it says that I am supposed to reach in and get the 'innards' package out of the turkey. What the fuck? I am not putting my hand in there! Do you think I can leave it in?” He asked and didn't recognize his own anxious voice.

“I don't want to sound crude, Brian...”

“When have you ever worried about being crude, Deb? Just tell me what the fuck to do?” He shouted.

“All right, as you wish, I'll be crude. If you can rim some stranger's ass for an hour, you can stick a couple of fingers up a turkey for a few seconds and pull out the entrails, OK, honey? So, no, you can't leave them in. By the way, aren't you cutting it a little bit close? It takes hours for a decent-sized bird to roast.”

“Oh God, I'm never going to look at a turkey sandwich the same way again,” he lamented, “And don't worry about the damn turkey, Deb. I'm sure it'll be ready by the time everyone gets here, especially Justin. I just got a text from him; he hit some traffic and probably won't make it here until about six. And by the way, about the rimming,” he continued indignantly, “First of all, that's none of your damn business and second of all, that's been reserved for Justin and Justin alone for quite sometime now, so kindly, shut the fuck up!”

“Shutting!” Deb said and laughed heartily, “Seriously, honey, do you want me to come over and help? You know I don't mind.”

“Thanks, Deb,” Brian answered, sighing, “But I'd rather do it myself.”

“OK. Good luck with the turkey guts, Brian,” She said jauntily and hung up.

“Thanks, I think,” he mumbled into the silent phone line.

Brian eyed the turkey resentfully and was about to reach for a bottle of Beam again, but then he suddenly remembered an old phrase that he heard was once said by Queen Victoria in relation to sex - “close your eyes and think of England.” He was of the opinion that she wasn't the one who said it, since by all accounts she had nine kids and was actually happily married, but at that point, confronted with a raw, wet and cold turkey, none of that crap mattered to him a hell of a lot. 

 _I don't need Beam. I'm a man. I'll just close my eyes and think of Justin,_ he thought and squaring his shoulders reached into the bird. As it turned out, the procedure wasn't all that bad and did, in fact, take all of a couple of seconds. He sighed in relief and continued to prepare the “beast” for the oven.

~*~*~*~*~

**_4:30 P.M. - Half an hour to Thanksgiving Dinner..._ **

By four in the afternoon Brian was utterly exhausted and promised himself that he will never cook a Thanksgiving dinner or any other meal ever again as long as he lived. He decided that he'll stick to making salad during every day dinners, let Justin take care of the rest and be grateful for every single bite that he didn't have to prepare himself. As for Thanksgiving dinner, after today, he decided that he didn't want to hear those words again – at least in relation to him and cooking. He vowed to leave it in Justin, Deb, Jennifer and Emmett's capable hands from now on and next year, he'll lock himself at Kinnetik or his home office until it was actually time to sit down to eat. He decided to apply the same principle to any other holiday or family gathering.

At four thirty, he took a hasty shower and got ready to greet his guests, which began to arrive almost immediately. However, there was only one person he was most anxious to see and that was Justin. He talked to him twice for about a minute at the West Virginia and then at the Pennsylvania borders – he was less than an hour and a half away and Brian couldn't wait.

By five, almost everyone was there and helping Brian set up the large table in the formal dining room. All the women, of course, flocked to the kitchen to inspect his handywork. The turkey was still in the oven, needing about another half an hour; the green bean casserole, the scalloped potatoes and the stuffing were in the other oven still cooking as well. While Brian was busy at the stove mashing the potatoes, Deb, Jennifer, Lindsay and Cynthia all decided to pitch in and assemble the salad. They all talked non-stop about how impressed they were with Brian for attempting to cook dinner and praised him right, and left for every single dish they haven't even tried yet. Brian tried to ignore them as best he could and tried to concentrate on adding the right amount of half & half to his potatoes. Unfortunately, their constant interruptions distracted him and he accidentally upended the entire half gallon carton of half & half into the pot. His nerves got the best of him and he threw them all out of the kitchen, telling them not to come back in under penalty of death.

Five minutes later, Michael, Ben, Hunter, Emmett, Ted, Blake and Carl came in. Brian was ready to blow up again at a moments notice, when Carl said in his gravelly, but kind voice,  
  
“Boy, I feel like having a drink. Got any beer?”

“Or Beam?” Ben asked.

“I can make us all a batch of Cosmos? I brought everything with me!” Emmett sang out.

“At this point, I'll drink anything, as long as it's a double!” Brian said, groaning. He abandoned the mashed potatoes, turned around and walking up to the kitchen island, heavily slumped on top of it's gleaming, cold, marble surface.

~*~*~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are love! Thank you for reading.


	6. And That's Why We Ate...

**_Britin..._ **

**_5:30 p.m - Who starts Thanksgiving Dinner on time anyway?_ **

  
At half past five and a third snifter of Jim Beam later, Brian was ready to get the “beast” and the side dishes out of the oven and everyone congregated in the kitchen to observe. Brian was a little pissed that apparently no one had any faith in his cooking abilities, so needless to say he was a little smug when the “beast” came out of the oven looking utterly perfect - golden-brown and delicious. Everyone looked at it in awe, except for Debbie, who frowned slightly.

“It doesn't smell right,” she declared confidently.

At Brian's mutinous expression, Jennifer tried to explain as diplomatically as possible.

“It's looks lovely, Brian, truly, it does. But, I think we should check the internal temperature, just to be on the safe side. Do you have a meat thermometer?”

“A meat thermometer?” Brian repeated, feeling completely clueless.

“Out of the way, let me take a look.” Debbie elbowed everyone out of her path and started rummaging through the kitchen drawers. “Aha!” She exclaimed triumphantly, clutching a meat thermometer that has clearly never been used, as it was still encased in a plastic package. She freed it using kitchen shears that magically appeared in her hands, quickly rinsed it and deftly stabbed the bird with a practiced hand into the thickest part of the breast.

“Damn, Brain, this thing is still fucking frozen on the inside! It needs at least a couple more hours to cook through,” She declared as loud groans reverberated around the room. To say that Brian was not happy would be an understatement.

“But it looks done on the outside!” He roared, “It was in the fucking oven for four and a half hours, just like the package said it should!”

“It doesn't mean it's safe to eat, you moron,” Hunter smirked and earned himself a slap upside the head from Debbie.

“Be nice!” She told him, pointing her red manicured finger at his nose. Then turning back to Brian, she said, “you must not have defrosted it enough. Keep your panties on, everyone,” she said confidently, amid continued groans of complaint escaping from several people around the kitchen. “It'll be OK. We'll just have to eat it later. Much later...” she mumbled under her breath.

She covered the turkey with aluminum foil to prevent the outside from burning and told Hunter to put it back in the oven to continue to cook.

“OK, let's see what else we got here,” she demanded.

Everyone clustered around the kitchen island to inspect Brian's other Thanksgiving offerings, so no one noticed when Jennifer Taylor quietly slipped out of the kitchen.

In the end, he didn't do so badly to everyone's enormous surprise. The stuffing was just a little bit dry, but Deb found some chicken stock in the fridge and quickly remedied the situation. The scalloped potatoes were a little too browned, but she just grated a bit more cheese, sprinkled it over the top and called the dish a success. The green bean casserole, however, was declared to be nothing short of perfection. After taste-testing everything, Debbie declared it all to be “pretty fucking good” and directed her various helpers to pop all four side dishes (Cynthia's candied yams included) back into the oven, turned to its lowest setting, to keep warm for the next few minutes.

Besides the still partially frozen turkey, the only other dish that was deemed unfit for consumption in its current form were the mashed potatoes, which at this point, unfortunately, resembled soup. Deb tried to salvage them for a few minutes, but gave up soon after, saying that it would be easier to make a version of baked potato soup, than to resurrect the actual mashed potatoes. She decided to leave “that mess” alone for the time being and do something with it for leftovers tomorrow instead.

At Brian's somewhat stricken expression, Gus, being a compassionate kid that he was, gave him a hug.

“It's OK, Daddy,” he said, “I love potato soup. It's really good, especially if you put a whole bunch of cheese and bacon in it. So, don't worry, I'll eat it!”

Brain returned his embrace and said, “Thanks, Sonnyboy! That's really sweet of you.”

Then he turned towards Lindsay and Mel standing nearby, observing the exchange, and whispered above his son's head, “What the fuck are you feeding him, you idiots? Cheese and bacon?”

Instead of answering, they just laughed and made their way towards the dining room, following several other people who were walking out of the kitchen.

“Well, Brian, all things considered you did pretty good!” Deb said with a smile on her face and patted his cheek affectionately. “We have your three perfectly good side dishes, Cynthia's candied yams and a salad. I saw the bakery boxes somewhere, so I know desert is all squared away. I'm proud of you, honey! But I'm getting pretty damn hungry, as is everyone else. So, let's sit down and start with the salad, at least,” she commanded, picked up the salad bowl and turned towards the direction of the dining room.

“Wait!” Brian exclaimed, “We can't eat yet! Justin isn't here. No one is eating a goddamn thing until he gets home. Understand?”

“I just spoke to Justin,” Jennifer said quietly, suddenly appearing back in the kitchen. “He's about ten minutes away. We might as well get everyone and everything on the table, and wait there.”

“Fine, but we are leaving the stuff in the oven. I slaved all day over a hot fucking stove like some sort of crazed Donna Reed, so everything better be warm when he gets here.”

~*~*~*~

Everyone resigned themselves to wait for Justin, went to the dining room, got settled and amused themselves with wine, beer, drinks and conversation while waiting for him to arrive. Unfortunately, ten minutes stretched into fifteen, then to twenty and Brian was starting to get seriously worried. He walked out of the dining room, went towards the front entrance to look for his rental car and was about to call Justin's cell, when the front door suddenly opened and there he was – exhausted, laden down with bags, bundled up in a thick scarf up to his chin, his hair disheveled and sticking up in every direction; but his tired eyes were twinkling in happiness and his signature smile was still shining brightly on his face. To Brian, Justin had never looked better.

Justin closed the heavy door with a quiet click, leaned back against it heavily and whispered, “Brian, I made it. I am so fucking happy to be home! Brian...”

Whatever he was about to say next was lost in Brian's kiss as he practically fell upon Justin hungrily, pressing him with his entire body firmly into the mahogany door. The next moment, Justin's duffel bag and fold-over suitcase fell from his right shoulder and his arm wound its way around Brian's neck, his fingers tangling in silky auburn locks. They were completely lost in each other, making out against the front door like horny teenagers or long-lost lovers who haven't seen each other in a decade.

Neither one of them heard when Gus poked his head around the corner and then shrieked from the top of his lungs, “Justin's back, Justin's back! Let's eat, I'm starving!”

They didn't hear the scrape of multiple chairs against the hardwood floors as several people got up from the dining room table and made their way to the kitchen to check on the turkey and retrieve the side dishes from the other oven. They didn't notice as someone picked up Justin's bags and took them away and they didn't pay attention to a number of “hey, Justin, welcome back's" from several people that were for some reason walking in and out of the front foyer. They continued to kiss and touch, and feel and caress each other where possible and it didn't look like they planned on stopping any time soon. Their semi-private reunion was suddenly and rudely interrupted by a loud screech that could have only come from Debbie, followed by her loud “Well, fuck!”

Both Brian and Justin groaned, but reluctantly split apart and hand-in-hand walked into the kitchen. The sight that greeted them nearly gave Brian a heart attack. Their state of the art kitchen was equipped with two ovens conveniently stacked right on top of each other with the controls for each oven right in the middle of the two. Somehow, when the turkey and the side dishes were being “inspected” before, whomever returned them all for further cooking switched the ovens by accident; which meant that for the past half an hour the side dishes that were supposed to be warmed on the lowest setting were being burned at 350 degrees, while the turkey hasn't been cooking much at all, its center remaining pretty much frozen.

Brian's beautiful green bean casserole now resembled greenish, mushy goo surrounded by a ring of charred French's onions; the cheese atop the scalloped potatoes looked like a slab of hard, brown, corrugated armor and the potatoes underneath looked as dry as dust; the stuffing that previously was just slightly dry, now resembled one of those brick-like, rock-hard, universally hated Christmas fruit cakes, except with vegetables. Cynthia's candied yams didn't fare any better either. In effect, to Brian's eyes the twenty people gathered at Britin for Thanksgiving dinner had nothing to eat, but abandoned mashed-potato “soup,” a salad, two pies and a gallon of cinnamon ice cream.

Brian stood there looking stunned, his mouth opening and closing as if he as trying to say something, but no sound was coming out. Justin seeing his distressed expression grew immediately concerned.

“Brian, are you OK?”

For some reason, Justin's voice brought him out of his stupor. He let go of Justin's hand, sat down heavily on one of the bar-stools standing standing next to the kitchen island currently burdened by the ruined dishes, and lightly beat his forehead several times on the marble surface.

“I can't fucking believe I ruined our first Thanksgiving dinner,” He moaned mournfully. “What the fuck are we going to eat!”

Everyone looked at him in shock - none of them have ever seen Brian this dispirited and morose in their lives, not in public and not when he was still quite sober.

A silence descended onto the kitchen as everyone looked at each other in a bit of a loss as to what to do next, when Cynthia said quietly, sending slightly apprehensive glances towards Brian, “Deb? Plan B?”

“Plan B,” she said nodding. Then looked pointedly at Emmett and Ted, “Well, what are you two standing there for? Get your thumbs out of your asses and get the cooler out of the van, pronto!”

At those words Brian immediately sprang up and he looked at Deb, Ted and Emmett with narrowed eyes.

“Plan B? Cooler?”

“Well, honey, don't be upset...” Deb trailed off, looked at Cynthia apologetically and then immediately threw her under the bus, “but when Cynthia found out that you decided to cook Thanksgiving dinner, she thought that we should all know and be prepared for...”

Ted decided to jump in with his two cents as Deb's voice trailed off without finishing her sentence.

“Well, Bri, we thought you might get a little... overwhelmed... yes, that's right, overwhelmed with cooking everything yourself for the first time, so we thought we'd....”

“Help you out just a little bit,” Emmett continued, “After talking to you, Deb was fairly certain you could handle the turkey, so we just made a few side dishes, just in case. In case...” he trailed off, like Deb, unsure how to finish the sentence without totally pissing Brian off.

“In case I totally fuck it up?” Brian said in a neutral, even voice.

“Well,” Ted and Emmett said in unison and both nodded.

“Maybe there is a God!” Brian exclaimed, happy smile breaking out on his face. “Well, what the fuck are you doing standing there? Didn't Deb just tell you to get the damn cooler? Hurry the fuck up, will you? Justin's probably starving!”

Both Ted and Emmett immediately ran out of the room and towards the garage where Emmett's catering van was parked. In the meantime, Brian gave a stunned Cynthia a thorough kiss full on the mouth. When he released her a minute later he said, “Thanks, mighty Cynthia. I owe you one!”

Then he enthusiastically hugged Deb, picking her up slightly off the floor and giving her a quick twirl. Then he kissed her on both cheeks and said, “Thanks for the plan B, Deb! I am glad I didn't completely ruin this.”

“But, honey, you didn't!” She protested, “Your dishes were great – I know, I've tried them. It's was us! I...we were trying to help you and somehow switched the damned ovens. It wasn't your fault!”

“Well, the turkey...the damned beast is still undercooked and that totally _is_ my fault! Your plan B gives us side dishes, but what about the meat, the damned main course? We do have 20 people here to feed,“ he said crestfallen.

Justin, who was watching the entire scene in amusement, said loudly, “You want meat? How about plan C?”

He lifted a large plastic bag that he still clutched in his left hand and gently deposited it on the kitchen island.

“Mom called me when she found out the turkey wasn't going to be ready for a couple more hours. She suggested that I pick something up on the way, at least for the kids, so I stopped at the Burger Barn a couple of miles down the road”

“Burger Barn?” several people exclaimed at once.

“Well, it was either that or McDonald's. I was actually surprised the place was open on Thanksgiving, but it was. That's why it took me extra 20 minutes to get here actually. It takes a while for them to cook and pack 20 turkey burgers.”

“Twenty? You got twenty turkey burgers?” Brian asked incredulously.

“Well, I was going to get just two for Gus and JR, but then I got really hungry and thought – turkey, bacon, cheese, lettuce, tomato, onion, pickle, some sort of secret sauce – pretty close to a Thanksgiving dinner, if you squint a certain way and don't think about it too much. So, I decided to get one for everybody!” Justin explained and then laughed at everyone's shocked expression.

About 30 seconds later, Ted and Emmett came in with a large cooler and got out several dishes containing Emmett's Southern style cornbread dressing with honey and jalapenos, Blake's grilled asparagus, Ted's sauteed green beans, red peppers and shallots, Mel and Lindsay's rice pilaf with wild mushrooms, Deb's mashed potatoes, Ben's glazed butternut squash and Michael's four cheese macaroni and cheese.

Brian looked at all the unexpected bounty in amazement, as each dish was put in the microwave one after the other to quickly warm up.

He smirked and said, “You fuckers had no faith in my cooking ability whatsoever, did you?”

After a moment of total silence in the kitchen Deb said, “We hoped you'll pull it off, Brian. We hoped, because you wanted it so badly. But we decided to have an alternative just in case something were to go wrong. I guess we all went a little overboard with the number of side dishes, but...what the hell, it's Thanksgiving! And don't forget, all this shit stayed in the cooler until we had no choice, but to use it. If everything you cooked turned out OK, then we planned on taking it all back home and eating it throughout the rest of the Thanksgiving weekend with you being none the wiser!”

Instead of being upset or insulted, Brian was rather touched, but before he could say anything, Mel and Lindsay who were in charge of warming up the stuff in the microwave, suddenly declared it all to be ready. The people closest to the food grabbed a dish each and everyone excitedly went to the dining room.

In less than a minute the kitchen was empty of noise, food and people, save for Brian and Justin who looked at each other and couldn't stop smiling. Then Brian suddenly grabbed Justin and kissed him. It started out hard, demanding and almost desperate, but as the seconds turned to minutes, the kiss became slower, more gentle and ended with an unexpected succession of light, almost silly-sweet pecks that made them both laugh.

Then Brian said, “Well, I finally have something to be thankful for this Thanksgiving and probably every single one in the future....”

“What, the turkey burgers?” Justin interrupted impishly.

“No, you, Sunshine. I am so fucking thankful for you! I've never been more glad to see you, to feel you and to have you in my life than right the fuck now. I love you! I am so glad you are home and not stuck somewhere in Europe under that damned ash cloud.”

“Oh!” Justin gasped. Over time it became somewhat easier for Brian to say those three little words out loud, not that he said them everyday; therefore, Justin treasured every single time he heard them. However, it was still extremely rare for Brian to pour out his heart like this and each, and every time it happened it took Justin by complete surprise. “God, Brian. I love you so fucking much! I wouldn't want to be anywhere else, but right here. Happy Thanksgiving, Brian.”

“Happy Thanks...” Justin's stomach rumbled loudly enough to give Brian pause and make him laugh uproariously. “I think your insatiable stomach just told me to shut the fuck up and feed you already. Let's go to the dining room, Justin, before it has a 'John Hurt moment' and has  _me_  for Thanksgiving dinner.”  
  
A few minutes later, they were seated at the dining room table and along with their family, and friends promptly tucked into the turkey burgers and various side dishes.

Two hours after the burgers, half the side dishes, the pies and the ice cream were devoured and no one had any room for even a bite more, the turkey was finally ready. Brian insisted that he didn't want to see, smell, touch or eat the “beast.” He insisted that it be carved, divided between all the guests, packed up and taken out of the kitchen as soon as humanly possible. Surprisingly, no one argued with his suggestion. Justin was unanimously voted to be the official turkey carver, a job he enormously enjoyed.

~*~*~*~*~

When the last of the guests left and Brian and Justin were standing by the front door, watching the tail lights of the last car disappear at the end of their driveway, they both though that it was by far the best Thanksgiving meal they've ever had together. As for Brian, it was the very best one he has had in his entire life, cooking disasters notwithstanding.

Brian looked at his partner, who five minutes ago seemed to be full of energy, but now that the last of the guests were gone, looked like he was ready to collapse from exhaustion.

“Hey, Justin, you look like you are about to pass out on me. Bed?”

“I like the way you think, Mr. Kinney,” Justin answered with a wiggle of his eyebrows and a sexy smile. Unfortunately, the effect was utterly ruined when he yawned widely the very next second. As Brian laughed, Justin admitted sheepishly, “On the other hand, I seem to be pretty tired. So, yeah...bed.”

They walked up the stairs to their bedroom, brushed their teeth and got in the shower to wash off the long day. The hot water, steam and a naked Brian seemed to revive Justin enough to initiate a blistering make out session. But before things could progress much further, Brian's sudden stillness and his quiet comment stopped Justin's downward trajectory towards his partners fully aroused cock.

“So, Sunshine... about that firstborn you mentioned...”

Justin stopped kissing the delicious area around Brian's belly button, stood straight up and looked into his partner's eyes.  
  
“Brian, I was kidding. I am quite happy being an honorary uncle to Gus and JR. Daphne promised me the same status whenever she has kids of her own. Besides, I've had enough of dealing with children on this trip home to last me a good long while. I've got the ringing ears and bruised shins to prove it. So, don't worry, I was only kidding.”

“Who's worried? Me? I'm not worried,” Brian hastily replied, then he took a deep breath and continued rather coyly, “I just think that having a kid before we are married will be a little unseemly, considering you like tradition and all.”

“What?”  
  
“And I don't know about Charlotte/Charles thing,” Brian said purposefully ignoring the stunned expression on Justin's face. “I think it's a much better middle name than a first, don't you? I'm thinking Natalie or Nathaniel. Yeah, I think that's much better. Nathaniel Charles Taylor-Kinney or Natalie Charlotte Taylor-Kinney. Hmmm, that has a much better ring to it, doesn't it? Of course, the whole name thing is completely negotiable. You marrying me, though, is not... negotiable, that is,” he ended his speech somewhat nervously and looked at Justin, who's expression of utter surprise still hasn't left his face.

“You want to get married?” He whispered finally, after a few minutes of silence.

“Yeah, I do. At the airport, before you left for London, you said that I could have anything I wanted. That you'd fulfill any wish. Well, this is it - my wish.”

“You are asking me to marry you naked, in the shower?”

“Well, being naked is our thing and the shower is our place. Can you think of anywhere more perfect?”

Justin thought for a minute and grinned, “No, I can't, actually.” Then sobering a little, asked, “And kids?”

“I wouldn't be opposed...”

“Seriously?” Justin asked with so much hope in his voice, that it squeezed Brian's heart.

“Seriously,” he replied with absolute conviction, his heart constricting even more from happiness as a glorious smile graced Justin's face.

“I don't want a big wedding, or golden gardenias, or any of that pomp and circumstance bullshit this time. Just you, me, the minister and the 18 people who were here with us today.”

“Sounds fan-fucking-tastic to me. Christmas?”

“New Years.”

“You got it, Sunshine.”

“Oh...and as far as kids are concerned, Brian... let's give it a couple of years, OK?”

All Brian did in return was nod, then he laughed out loud and swooped down for a thorough, completely involving and ridiculously romantic kiss.

~*~*~*~*~

**_2019... Present Day_ **

**_The night before Thanksgiving..._ **

  
“Awww, I love that story! Especially the part where you decided to get married and chose my name.” Natalie sighed contentedly when the story was finished, not realizing that her fathers have been telling her a “kid-friendly” version of events, heavily edited for coarse language (cussing), adult themes (drinking) and sexual situations. The eight-year-old, still considered it to be the most romantic story in the world, as well as a pretty funny one.

“Why do you always say that it was the best Thanksgiving ever? I mean Daddy was stuck in another country and got home late. You had to cook for the first time, Dad, and everything got ruined anyway, and that's why...”

“And that's why we ate turkey burgers on Thanksgiving. Yes,” Brian interrupted, “I think it was the best Thanksgiving ever – well, until you came along, of course – because up until that point, it was the happiest I've ever been in my life. Your Daddy came home safe and sound; the entire family was here; the dinner was saved at the last minute; I was promised that I would never-ever have to cook anything ever again as long as I lived; and, best of all, Sunshine said he'd marry me. Pretty perfect, huh, princess?”

“Yeah, Dad, pretty perfect,” Natalie agreed. “What about you, Daddy? Why do you think it was the best?”

“Same reasons, actually, but mostly because I was home with Brian,” Justin said simply, smiling happily at his husband. Then he turned to his daughter, gave her a kiss and said, “OK, honey, it's getting late. You need to go to sleep and so do I – it's my turn to cook Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow, remember?”

Ever since the almost disaster that was Brian and Justin's first Thanksgiving dinner, the members of their family and friends instituted a holiday rotation where a particular family cooked the majority of a holiday meal, be it Thanksgiving, Christmas, Hanukah, New Years or Easter, with everyone else pitching in with one or two side dishes, dessert or drinks.

Thanksgiving, however, was treated a little differently, for it was always celebrated at Britin, no matter whose turn it was to roast the turkey and make the four main sides. It became a tradition for that cook to take over Brian and Justin's kitchen for the day, with everyone else arriving by five o'clock with a cooler of extra side dishes.

“Yeah, Daddy, I remember. Good night, Dad! Good night, Daddy! I love you!” She gave each of her dads a hug, a kiss and snugged into her pillows to sleep.

Brian and Justin were walking out of Natalie's bedroom door, as always hand-in-hand, when she suddenly sat up and asked with a worried frown, “Daddy, since you are cooking the 'beast' tomorrow, who's making the big turkey burger to share this year? I really hope it's not uncle Ben, he'll find a way to put tofu in there.”

Brian and Justin laughed and answered in unison, "It is uncle Ben!"

"But, don't worry," Justin continued, "All you have to eat is just a small bite."

"Even with tofu?"

"Even with tofu, princess!" Brian insisted, "Everyone eats one bite - after all, it's tradition."

 

_~*~*~*~ **The End**  ~*~*~*~_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this little story of mine! Comments would make me super happy.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments would be greatly appreciated!
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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